


The Blade Itself

by o1athe



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Archer is the bone of his sword in the most literal sense, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Shippy Gen, Side Diarmuid/Artoria
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-14 15:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18478897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o1athe/pseuds/o1athe
Summary: The College is said to be the most prestigious academy in all of Throne, acting as the alma mater for legends across the globe. Cú Chulainn, one of the College's most promising heroes, finds himself floundering through the academic part of things, spending his days working on window shopping instead of his research paper.Turns out that the cursed sword he picked up on a whim doesn't like that idea much.





	1. Muddy Waters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coolchulainn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolchulainn/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got permission to use @coolchulainn's fic ideas. This is based off a few concepts I thought were neat. Things promptly got out of hand.  
> Heroic spirits from all over the Nasuverse make appearances here, but for the most part there aren't any singularities or fake grail wars or mage-related conspiracies going on--you should be fine if you have an idea of how Fate's servant system works.

Cú didn't make a habit of making habits, but nothing got the fog of lectures out of his head quite like a night walk down the old bridge and into the downtown center close to the College.  
  
The first time he paid the place a visit was when his flatmate started buying stuff for his girlfriend from the food carts there. Lots of it. Steamed pork buns and curry croquettes and other things he’d have maybe one bite of before Artoria the Eater showed up to stuff her face with the rest.  
  
Dia would deny the girlfriend thing until his dying breath, deny the _impropriety_ of it all _,_ but at the very least they had _something_ going on, because he got all dreamy-eyed when he talked about her and demon-eyed when Cú grabbed some of her food for himself.  
  
Cú chuckled at the memory. At least she was nice about it. She had a crazy appetite for such a small woman. It was like she had several stomachs or something.  
  
The croquettes were nice and potatoey when he managed to get his hands on them, but then he saw a huge feathered spear in one of the shop windows and suddenly food could wait. It was auction season.  
  
"Think we got room for one of _these_ puppies?" Cú had shown it to Diarmuid on one of their trips, admiring the engraved bone adorning the end.  
  
"You have a fine eye for weaponry, my friend. Why don't we attach it to the armory door—good god, man, this costs 7000 pounds!" It took all of an instant for him to snatch the spear from Cú's hands and put it back. “I'm afraid this would be a steep investment. I… I could buy an engagement ring—no, an entire wedding with that.”  
  
Cú could have pressed the issue if he really put his mind to it. What kind of magic ring was he even thinking of? Seemed like a lot of money for a tiny band of metal. But honestly, Dia was a nice guy, and more importantly his lovesick flatmate was the one person keeping him between the Warp Spasm and untimely cardiac arrest. Besides, it was way above his price range. He could deal with not having that cool spear.  
  
...Or so he thought, but after a few weeks of weapon-watching the purple-haired lady sweeping the floor took pity on him and tipped him off. Apparently he was supposed to do as the locals did and haggle down to a more reasonable price.  
  
So here he was, heading down a familiar road with a cheap latte in hand, looking for something interesting to throw his hard-earned splurge cash at without breaking the bank too much.  
  
Cú downed his coffee cup and tossed it aside. Disposables like that felt out of place next to the perpetually dusty knick-knacks they sold here. He couldn't actually read the characters on the banner in front, but the crowded arrangement of old furniture and what seemed like a thousand lacquered flintlocks on the walls gave the place character. Kind of like he was hiding out in someone’s attic.

The bell at the door chimed as he stepped inside. He could see a group of older men crowded around what looked like an overly intense game of Mahjong at the back of the store, but otherwise it was just him, the shopkeeper's daughter, and the sounds of shifting tiles.  
  
Her name was Nobu and she was “The Demon Warlord of Owari and the Throne, Oda Nobunaga!” Or so she claimed. Cú could see it, assuming he could actually see her head above the cash register this time. What Nobu lacked in height she made up for with sheer presence, using stools and stepladders as pedestals as she hopped around the shop like an acrobat with a sugar rush. She seemed more imp than demon, but in his experience warlord types usually liked to overdo things anyway.  
  
"It's you again!" Nobu perked up the second she saw him at the counter. She tilted her military cap up so her eyes were visible, bright red and wide with excitement.  
  
"Nice seeing you too."  
  
"Of course it is! I'm the Great Demon Shopkeeper!" Nobu blinked and looked around. "Eh? That freckle guy isn't with you today? He usually spends a lot of time here, though. Well, can't be helped. Take a look at my wares and be amazed!"  
  
Nobu wriggled out of her spinny chair and pulled out an old dresser drawer containing what was probably the most intimidating tea set known to man.  
  
A couple of teacups with metallic blue swirls in them, a jar that looked like it was better off holding someone's ashes, and a cast-iron teapot that was probably heavy enough to crack a man's skull. It was the kind of centerpiece you put in a display cabinet with the lights dimmed low.  
  
"This tea set is from the Warring States period! Real samurai used this fine china in their tea ceremonies," said Nobu, nodding sagely as if she spoke for the samurai herself. "And for a mere 2500 pounds, you too can sip fine beverages while you contemplate haikus over the heads of your enemies!"  
  
Cú made a face. He couldn't drink tea out of this. It had to be a billion years old at this point. He could lick paint chips off a museum vase and get the same effect.  
  
"Nah, I'm good. I think I'd get dragged into a tea party if I brought this back. Got anything else for me? Something a little pointier?" He pointedly pointed at the spear by the window.  
  
"Oh, that one? That's reserved for someone else. We're just waiting for them to pick it up." Nobu looked sheepish. "...But still! Even if I can't sell you that spear you were looking at right now, we've got a huuuge collection!"  
  
Cú liked the sound of that, and he told her so.  
  
"We just got a whole bunch of firearms in. Flintlocks, matchlocks, padlocks... Most of them are from the 20th century, but there's some really old ones too," she said, grabbing an ornate rifle with a golden flower pattern on it.  
  
“Probably more trouble than it's worth to bring a gun back with me. You see those dark clouds outside? They look like they're about to pop."  
  
“That’s a dumb reason. Just take the carry case with you! Thunder and lightning make the perfect weather for a dramatic battle! ...But the last time I tried to use my matchlocks in the rain the gunpowder got all soaked.” Nobu rolled her chair towards the window to take a look at the weather. "Hmm, hmm. Is that so."

He doubted Dia would ever forgive him for ruining a quality weapon with rainwater, but really, he was more hung up over how soulless it felt to just lay low in a foxhole and wait for people to start dying. _There’s no oomph in a sniper fight. I like my dramatic battles up close and personal._

"Stay right there! There's something in the back you may find intriguing." Nobu put the rifle back in its protective case before standing up.

The girl clambered into the back room and pulled out a broadsword that looked almost as big as she was.  
  
"Behold! The Ultimate Cursed Blade of Lord Fuyuki the 5th!"  
  
Cú snorted. "That's the goofiest name I've ever heard."  
  
He decided to pretend his own name ideas weren't equally embarrassing.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about. I rule at naming stuff," Nobu said with a huff. "I'm not sure how old it is, but it’s so wabi, so sabi, that I had to give it a suitably awesome name, no?"  
  
Cú practically felt the sword droop a little at its new moniker.  
  
Goofy name aside, the blade seemed to feather at its curved edge, black on one side and white on the other, alternating in a dizzying pattern of waves and hexagons. It was completely fucking hexed. He couldn't wait to bring it home.  
  
"You mind if I..."  
  
Nobu just gave him a maniacal grin as he dipped into a lunge with sword in hand and waved it around.

“En garde!” He swung an arc through the shop, artfully avoiding the delicate lineup of porcelain dishes and little earthen pots as he plucked a basket off the shelf using the sword as a fulcrum. “Can't say I really need a basket right now, but I might just start usin’ this baby as a third arm.”  
  
It had an almost weightless feel to it, as light as the “feathers” encircling its blade, but his slashes had enough body to slice the air in front of him. So much so that he might have sliced a wall of Mahjong tiles too. One of the old men glared in their direction as he rearranged the board with a sharp _clack_ . Cú put the sword back on the counter.  
  
"I was gunning for that spear, but you know what, I'll take it."  
  
"Excellent! That'll be 7000 Nobu Points."  
  
_This again? All right, if the price is always marked up 6 times, then how about..._  
  
"650."  
  
"Eh? Seriously? That's highway robbery! Tell me, are you asking me to stab you with your purchase?"  
  
"All right then, 700."  
  
"999!"  
  
"...Hah?"  
  
"H-hey, these things are expensive! And of the highest quality! There's not a single fake in this shop!" Nobu pouted.  
  
He was going to ask what the crazy price reduction was for, but this was fine too. Looks like the purple lady had his best interests at heart.  
  
"Weeeell, I'll think about it, but eh... that damage on the blade looks a little rough, don’t you think? Looks like someone shoved it through a belt grinder.”  
  
"That's because, uh… it actually costs 899! Yeah! For the low price of 899, you too can grind someone below the belt.”

“I can do that for free if I look hard enough.”

“Cheap isn't free! 89 _8!_ That's my final, _final_ offer."  
  
"Yeah. I think I can do that."  
  
"Freckle guy was right. You have a fine eye for quality!" Nobu wrapped the blade with a thick roll of red cloth as Cú signed the receipt. She didn't seem affected by how far he'd slashed the price at all.  
  
"You cut a good bargain. Try not to slice yourself on it, Mister Choochoolane.” Nobu absolutely demolished his name. It was kind of cute. "Oh, and the sword too. It doesn't have a scabbard or anything, so it might chop your hand off when you least expect it."  
  
"Please try not to scare the customers off." Purple lady—“Medusa,” if he was reading her name tag right—poked her head out of the back room with a quiet admonition.  
  
"You don't need to worry about the little lady scaring me off, really. She's doin' fine."  
  
"No, I was talking about that stunt you pulled earlier. That sword is..." The saleswoman faltered for a moment, as if trying to say this in a way that wouldn't start a fight. "Well. It's not well-suited for beginners. It has a will of its own, so to speak."  
  
"I'm not a total rookie. I'm taking lessons. And I can toss a pitchfork across a lake. I'll be alright."  
  
Cú chose to ignore that the Pitchfork of the Lake Incident, as Artoria liked to call it, was "unacceptably dangerous for a public picnic zone" and basically an accident on his part.  
  
"Cú Chulainn, was it? As long as you care for that sword, it should return the favor for centuries to come,” Medusa explained. Her voice was softer than he'd expected from a Gorgon. "But I don't think you'll have any issues maintaining this one. It practically cleans itself."

“Nothing extra I need to buy, right? Makes my life a little easier.” Cú's friends were more into swords than he was. Maybe he'd borrow their sword polish or whatever the fencing-kendo team used to give it a nice sheen later.

“...The cloth is free of charge.” Medusa's glasses gleamed with something dangerous as she trimmed off an excess of red.

Cú smiled back.  
  
"Cool. Guess I'll see you guys next time I go window shopping.”  
  
"I-Indeed. Have a nice evening, sir." Medusa stiffly nodded at him in response.  
  
"Wahahaha! Do inform us if you slay any gods with the Ultimate Cursed Blade. I'll put your picture up on the wall!" Nobu exclaimed, making a frame with her fingers.  
  
"I'll slay some vegetables for you later, then—waugh!" Cú narrowly avoided face planting the dusty floor panels as the sword in his hand went from paperweight to heavyweight.  
  
He could feel the saleswoman's eyes bore into him as he grabbed an empty section of glass display case to keep himself aloft. _Told you so._ That's what they seemed to say.  
  
With that embarrassment out of the way, he crumpled his receipt up and tossed it on his way out. The rain would probably turn it into a soggy clump in his pocket anyway. The scent of a brewing storm permeated the air like a thick fog.  
  
Cú could still hear Medusa's quiet voice turning towards Nobu to lecture her about "not encouraging murder, even if killing gods is very, very cathartic." He cracked a toothy grin that devolved into grumbling as he felt a drop of water splash against his cheek right as he stepped onto the pavement.  
  
The rain was already bucketing down on him, his sword was suddenly 50 times heavier, and with his luck he'd be swept away in a goddamn monsoon before he was even remotely close to Dia's place.  
  
Cú shrugged it off. Let the water roll off his back. He hoisted the sword up over his head, using the cloth as a makeshift covering as he started a long sprint back to the bridge.  
  
Normally he'd just grab an umbrella and take it easy. Cú was the kind of guy who bought cheap protection when he got caught in the rain and usually lost it soon after. But his magic senses were sharp enough to tell that his savings would fly away with his sword the second he took his eyes off it.

Cú couldn't exactly fly, but he could come close. No projectile could even graze him if he cast Protection Against Arrows—and really, wasn't a downpour just the gods’ way of throwing shit at you to rain on your parade? He danced through the drops, dodging bullets—and promptly slipped, soaking the back of his white t-shirt with muddy water.  
  
"...This really ain’t my day." Cú winced as his shortcut through some rando's lawn ended up with grass on his ass. Who’d have thunk that strong aura was coming from the reinforced grass knot some prankster tied in the one lawn he chose for an easy springboard? His ponytail was starting to clump together with mud. One of his shoes was more swamp thing than shoe. He might have landed butt-first on a cluster of rabbit crap. Even his fucking sword looked like it was mocking him, smugly stuck in the ground with hardly a blade of grass dirtying its cover. Here he was, leaving his dignity behind in the knotted lawn of this deceptively safe-looking front yard, braving the torrential rain with only a burglar magnet wrapped in miraculously dry—wait.  
  
He could just use the cloth as a poncho, couldn't he?

Cú clambered to his knees, taking the sword by its grip and hoisting it out of the ground.

Big mistake.  
  
A sky filled with cogs. A solitary blade in a hazy hill of metal scraps. A deep, condescending voice embedding itself in his brain—    
  
_"What the hell are you doing?"_  
  
Cú woke up with wind in his ears and dust in his eyes. Where was that cloth when he needed it? He could barely feel himself. It was like he was turning into sand and the world itself threatened to blow him away.

Someone, or something, was tapping its foot impatiently next to his head. A small gesture in a sandstorm, but the presence of it felt all too familiar. A steady cadence with an unreadable energy. It ticked him off.

“There’s no tactful way to say it. You look ridiculous when you’re thrashing around in the middle of the rain like that. I mean, really, have you seen yourself?” The voice continued, almost intolerably close this time. Cú had a burning urge to crush it into powder and spit it back into the wind, but for all he could see of its owner, he might as well have been trying to spot a face in a marching band with only the distant drumbeat of their parade to guide him.  
  
"Geez, I could ask you the same question. How’s anyone supposed to see themselves around… wherever this is?" Cú slapped a hand over his eyes so he could keep them from getting watery.  
  
“This place is nothing but swords. Surely you can think of something?”

“So we’re surrounded by steel dust? Man, and I thought regular sand was bad. If you’re trying to blind a guy, gouge his eyes out and be done with it.”

“Not quite. To put it more accurately, you’re in what's left of my Reality Marble. I've already borrowed your phone to send Rider a message. So long as your billing address is the same as your home address, she should be able to deliver us to your place in record time." The voice said all of this nonchalantly, as if it made any fucking sense.  
  
"Look, I'll overlook snooping through my porn folder if it means we get out of this storm afterwards, but who the hell is Rider?"  
  
"Glasses? Purple hair? Works at the antique shop? Come on now, I didn't think you were _that_ dense..."  
  
"Are you telling me she likes it cowgirl style? Heh, I see how it is. Trying to get on my good side, eh?"

(It was only half-working. That woman was a bit reserved for his tastes.)  
  
"N-No! Well, maybe. I dunno! No clue. Why do you keep mentioning sex? This isn't about her sexual preferences," the voice sputtered.  
  
"I’m kidding. How do you even know her anyway? Aren't you supposed to be, like, a thousand years old?"  
  
"Perhaps. I'm just a nameless wraith, cast to a nameless blade by a nameless failure. But if you really need to put a name to a face, you can call me Archer."  
  
"Archer, eh? That's kind of random. I was expecting something swordier. Like _cloidem_ or _scian_ .”  
  
"Those are Irish words. I'm not Irish. This sword isn't Irish. You might be Irish, but that kind of senseless naming would bother me for a thousand years," Archer protested.  
_Sheesh. The way he's going on about it, that isn't even an exaggeration._ Cú could only imagine how indignant the guy looked right now.  
  
"All right, Archer. I'll bite. Call me Cú, then. Cú Chulainn."  
  
"Cú Chulainn, huh." Archer repeated it easily. Slight accent, similar to Nobu's, but he said it with confidence. Not bad for a first-timer.  
  
"You know, like the hero of the Ulster cycle. That was close enough, though. I'll take it.” Cú gave Archer a second to come up with another quip before moving on. Nothing. “So, uh... that Medusa—I mean, that Rider lady obviously has you figured out. I'm sure Nobu’s caught onto something too."  
  
"And?"  
  
"You do know you didn't need to try snapping my arm off back there, right? It's not like those old guys could hear you over all that click-clacking anyway."  
  
"I simply didn't feel like revealing myself right away. Why does it matter?"  
  
"I like my throwing arm. Besides, you seem like the kind of guy who never shuts up after he gets going, y'know?"  
  
"Hmph. I just like to be thorough, that's all."  
  
Cú couldn't see him. He couldn't even see if there was any _him_ to see. But in that moment, it felt as if someone had left his side.

The next time he blinked, he was sitting on a couch in the apartment lobby with a wrapped sword and an invoice for 15 pounds in his lap. There was no sign of his shoes or socks, but with a gale force wind in his face, it felt like he'd been left in the wash with someone's laundry.  
  
Artoria blinked as she reduced the blast of Invisible Air to an Invisible Blow Dryer. "Oh, good evening, Cú. Diarmuid and I just returned from Hongzhou Feast Hall. It is getting late, so I was about to head home, but far be it from me to leave a man in need with his soaked-through undergarments..."  
  
"Hongzhou? Lemme guess, you tried the spicy tofu contest thing?"  
  
Cú wrinkled his nose. It wasn't the worst restaurant in the world or anything, but the mapo tofu there was ungodly. The spiciest assault on his senses he'd ever had the misfortune to taste. The place always smelled like a challenge in the making. Dia would probably fall to the Sichuan pepper beast in about 5 seconds, but maybe his girlfriend was up for it?  
  
"No, not at this hour. We just bought dinner to enjoy by the lake. I cannot speak for Diarmuid, but I found it to be a pleasant experience." Artoria trailed off with a yawn, excusing herself softly. "Still, there is one thing that I must ask before I take my leave. That shape, could it be..."  
  
"A sword, yeah?" 

"I was actually about to ask if you managed to save that baguette, but a sword is much more interesting. Come, let us return to your room.” Artoria looked over the bundle of red with a curious expression. She made eye contact like she was scoping him out, adding another section to a mental sketch. “I can spare another hour for the sake of this find.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went AWOL to work through a large pile of tossed WIPs, but I'm back with a new and improved stability patch. No promises for YYH yet--it's been too long; I'd need to go back and dust it off--but I'm not usually one to lose an interest once I've gained it, so feel free to shoot me some ideas about that if you're so inclined. My writing process has gotten a lot faster.
> 
> I was writing Blade Itself while cranking out GUDAGUDA nodes, so that ended up bleeding into my drafts.  
> This version of Cú is less experienced than usual, but he's basically his OG self carrying a Caster kit on top of his normal melee skills.
> 
> ...Thinking about it, this whole College deal smells like a Servant Universe AU, but for now, think of this as the Magical Realist counterpart to MHX's Silver Age. 
> 
> Prompt I drew ideas from here, because credit is good:  
> http://tainbocuailnge.tumblr.com/post/137836490502/


	2. Soul on Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, bringing a cursed sword home wasn't smart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I'm at it with this double-update, I'd like to give credit to the people who've helped beta read this story:  
> >Hype and Hue, for checking it over in its earlier stages.  
> >Maxx, for their fancy blue beta notes and drawing me a snazzy caped crusader Archer.  
> (Check Maxx out; they're 1k3bukur0 on Twitter and sexy-androgynous-satan on Tumblr)  
> >@Dragonfiend, for helping me fill in the gaps where my phrasing fell short.
> 
> I have a tendency to overthink things, so I can't thank you guys enough for giving me the motivation I needed to get this story online.

Artoria had already made it across the room. Feigning the need to dust her skirt before taking the next set of stairs, her energy returned with her continued ascent. The only way she could have been more ready for this was if she’d brought an archaeology kit with her. Cú moved in front of her so he could unlock the door himself, wielding the sword with one hand.   
  
"Damn it, Cú. You're going to traumatize someone if you unsheath me in such a tight space."  
  
Cú stopped in his tracks. _Damn pervert sword, saying shit like that in public. Two can play at that game._  
  
He would have fired a joke back, but Artoria was glaring at him like he was messing with his phone at work and she was a peeved customer at the end of an hour-long queue.  
  
"I understand that you are still shaky with excitement, but you are blocking the stairwell with your sword." Artoria crossed her arms. "It is well before midnight. There are other residents who might wish to head out."

Cú tried lifting it over his head again, only for Archer to tip the scales when the tip touched the ceiling. He grabbed his arm to keep it in place.

Artoria looked like she wanted to ask if he was having a stroke.

“I don't suppose you're just going to leave me scraping the walls, are you?” Archer sounded as deadpan as ever. “I can't say I'm eager to find out how abrasive they get.”

“I’m not exactly eager to find out how abrasive _you_ get either, but here we are, huh?” Cú tried holding the sword out in front of him, lining it up with the end of the second floor.

“What recklessness! What if Diarmuid came down the stairwell, only to see a sharp, pointy hazard coming for his throat?” Artoria slammed the stair she was on with a camouflaged blade. “As acting president of the fencing club, it would be a blight on my honor to let any accidents occur on my watch.”  
  
“Just tell him to use the elevator. I've taken people out from weirder angles.” Cú groaned. He didn't really want to resort to this, but if it would get these gallant knight types to stop riding his coattails like he was their noble fucking steed..."But if you really insist, lemme just..."  
  
Cú pulled out a runestone and threw it on the ground.  
  
"Uruz!" An arch of branches appeared on top of the rune, cracking the runestone with it and leaving nothing but a fine powder and a gate to his bedroom in its wake.  
  
"After you, miss." Cú kicked the runestone dust aside with his bare foot.

"You didn't make your bed," said sword and swordswoman simultaneously, though he could make out some muttered swears under Archer's breath.  
  
Cú gave her a withering look. Maybe the bed was unmade and there was still some clothing he hadn't hung up yet, but his room smelled fine and that was good enough for him.  
  
"Come on, do you know how annoying it is to make more of these things? Get in there already." He prodded her leg with his dust-covered sole.  
  
"You are right. Forgive me for my outburst." Artoria bowed in apology. "But I only just realized that you spent a significant amount of time on your runestones. I did not think you had to expend much effort on your studies."  
  
"Hah? The hell is that supposed to mean? I can be an intellectual if I have to be."  
  
She responded with a tiny cryptic smile. "It is a bit tedious to explain at this hour, but I meant it as a compliment."  
  
"Heh. I don't really get it, but let me thank you anyway." Cú closed the gate and uncloaked the sword.  
  
No wind this time. Just a man's face in the reflection, obscured by an obtuse pattern. He could vaguely make out sharp features and what might have been a tan, but the rest was blurry as shit. This was a carnival mirror with a dude in it. The face glared at him.  
  
"Really, how do you live like this? The least you could do is tidy up before inviting a guest over."  
  
Unfortunately, Archer's voice was as sharp as the rest of him.  
  
“Jeez, I can't believe I got called a slob by a talking sword..."  
  
"Excuse me," interrupted Artoria. "I meant nothing of the sort."  
  
Oh, right. Artoria was a fencer, wasn't she.

“Nah, not you. Archer.” He gestured towards the sword.

“A sword dubbed _Archer?_ What an odd choice of name. But that is not my point. How immature must you be to blame your blade for your sharp tongue?”

“Indeed. How immature of you, Cú.” The blade wobbled with Archer's barely concealed mirth. _What an asshole._

“What, you can't hear him? That's funny. He's the one who put in some nice words to get me back here. Possessed my phone and everything.” He dug his phone out of his coat pocket. _Nope, out of juice._ Tossing it onto the blankets drew another grumble out of Archer.  
  
"I see.” Artoria didn't sound entirely convinced. “In that case, why don't we have him possess something else?”

Lancer tapped the flat of his blade with his knuckles. “Can you do that for me?”

The face disappeared.

“Tch. Guess not. Maybe that shop clerk has some magic I don't know about.”

“A… technologically based magic?” Artoria pronounced it slowly, as if trying to keep her regal enunciation from tripping over its royal robes. “That should not be possible. Magitech courses are infamous for their intensive workloads. I would be extremely impressed if the biker who dropped you off was working a part-time job on top of that.”

 _So_ **_that's_ ** _why they call her Rider._

“Yeesh, that wouldn't be pretty. But Archer mentioned something about losing his marbles. Think he's a magitech student who cracked under the pressure?”

“Denied. I’m afraid I was never that impressive of a magus.” Archer's haughty tone made his mediocrity sound like a great accomplishment.

Cú tilted his head towards the swordswoman hovering by his desk. “Looks like it's a no from him, too.”

“He must be using _some_ form of magic to communicate with you, but as I received an A on the magic resistance exam..." Artoria shook her head. "I would like to assess his character for myself, but I do not think I could form a telepathic connection with a possessed artifact without destroying its spirit in the process.”  
  
"You really don't want to. Talking to this guy feels pricklier than shoving a spike through my back." Archer sneered at that comment. "Still, ain't it kind of lame to leave a cursed sword just… sitting there?”  
  
"Absolutely. It is terribly lame."  
  
"You thinking what I'm thinking?"  
  
"Most certainly, Cú."

Artoria, with her face lined with quiet determination, coolly held out a bottle of metal-grade mineral oil.

“The red shawl you brought with you should be more than adequate.”

Cú blinked. “What?” That wasn't exactly the kind of quest he had in mind. “Wait, wait. Hold on a second. We've got a magic ghost sword on our hands and the first thing you want to do is _polish it?”_ Cú tried to stifle his laughter behind his palm.

Artoria drew back. “What is so funny about proper sword maintenance?”

“Nothin’ really. It’s fine. I'm fine. I was gonna ask you about sword maintenance anyway, but I think Archer here might fuck us up for doing it wrong,” Cú said as he grabbed the side of the bed for dear life. It was all he could do not to burst into a laughing fit again. “Oh man, this is too much.”

“I thought the shopkeeper wanted me to deliver this to you! She was very clear about that fact,” said Artoria, frantically flailing her arms around.

“‘This sword has specific tastes. It’s not exactly _necessary_ , but your friend might find this useful.’” Artoria gestured with the bottle in hand, mimicking Medusa's breathy tones. With the way Artoria normally acted, though, it felt more like she was trying to whisper-talk in the library.

“She did? I oughta get her something nice if this works out.” Cú took a section of cloth and unceremoniously dunked it in oil.

Archer seemed content to observe, eyes moving up and down with Cú’s polished motions as the sword’s surface grew increasingly clear. A tinted window to a hill of swords, with the image of a man in red superimposed on it.

"Hey, Archer."

The man in red blinked before averting his eyes. Cú grinned at him, baring his teeth.

“Wanna break your thousand-year old curse?"

“Mock me all you want. I happen to know the weaknesses of everyone here.”

“Who said I was fucking around with ya? I've got this teacher, you see, and she happens to be really good with cursed polearms…” Cú leaned over the blade with the friendliest face he could manage in his uncomfortably air-dried clothes. “Come on, what do you say? You'd be a free man and I'd have my senior thesis in the bag.”

Archer threw himself not to kill, but to bean his target's forehead with his pommel.

“Enough. I might not be _free,_ but I have my own reasons for keeping this form.”

Cú rubbed the fresh bump on his head with a displeased sound. Archer didn't seem like the type to fly off the handle and straight-up murder him in his sleep, but he was going to have to figure out a better arrangement than leaving the talking sword by his bed like a metallic guard dog.

_It’d be dog-guard-dog, you see._

“I'll lay off you if you lay off me.” Cú shrugged in mock surrender.

“I take it that Archer is being uncooperative.” Artoria extended a hand towards his bruise before stopping herself. “Still, I find it reassuring that he did not become hostile and start attacking us both.”

“Not hostile” was debatable, but he'd figure something out.

“Well, if he starts talking, just give me a shout. I’m gonna wash off real quick.” Cú grabbed a change of clothing from the pile of clean clothes and headed out.

Artoria just hummed in acknowledgement, as if to say, _yes, Cú, bathing is clearly the solution here._ Not that it hurt to come out of the shower with a clean mind. If she tried anything funny while he was occupied, his runes would know before he did.

“Augh!”

_Like that._

Cú burst out of the bathroom cloaked in a blue beach towel and a crown of shampoo bubbles.

“This is a predicament.” Diarmuid had his back against the wall and a broadsword angled towards his hair curl. Artoria had one foot by his torso and one foot on the floor as she tried to pull it away with her entire body weight.

Cú tapped Artoria out—there was maybe a centimeter of safety before it would have cut a line through Dia's sweater sleeve—and yoinked Archer from the wall with one hand.

“That's my flatmate. Diarmuid ua Duibhne—but I just call him Dia. Dia, this is Archer. I got him for cheap.”

“The sword that shot at me like an arrow? What an apt sense of naming you have.” Diarmuid clutched his heart as he caught his breath. “But might I ask why you sprung one of your death traps in the presence of the King of Knights?”

“Please, I checked her off a long time ago. It'd look pretty bad if she caught on fire every time she came over for dinner, y’know?”

“That kind of confined combustion spell is…” Diarmuid paused, blankly staring at Cú as if he just told him he’d reserved the entire College for a tournament. “...No, never mind. As usual, I’m impressed by your bold tactics. Was that towel part of your battle plan?”

“Getting the rainwater out of my hair was part of my battle plan, all right.” Cú mentally sent a rune to search for the shower handle.

Diarmuid watched it float by and shuddered when he noticed the watery tracks Cú left on his way to the crime scene. Or maybe he was just shaken up by Archer’s surprise attack and everything around him still looked like a death flag.

“In any case, I suspect this incident was just a soldier’s reflex on Archer’s part.” Artoria seemed conflicted. Diarmuid, sword. Sword, Diarmuid. “At the very least, we should endeavor to reach a common understanding with him. What kind of spirit is he? What does he want? If we can answer that, it may give me some clues about this sword's origins.”

“Oh yeah, did you get anything interesting out of him?”

“All I could glean from looking was that it seems to be an Eastern scimitar of some sort. The body was made fairly recently as well, yet the material reminds me of old Damascus steel. Whoever made this sword must have been highly dedicated to his craft.” Artoria finished with a warm smile. “It would be wonderful if we could meet him properly.”

The sword fell to the floor with a _clang._

 _“Wonderful?”_  Archer looked torn between embarrassment and anger, his face a blotchy red. “I’m just a bootlegger. That was my single specialty, and for all that it was, I couldn't even manage that. How much of a half-baked moron do you have to be to call upon someone so unreliable?”

It didn't seem like Cú’s flatmate could hear him either, judging by the nervous glance Diarmuid was sending his way. _Did you just drop your weapon,_ he seemed to ask, _or is it moving on its own?_

Cú winked at him, twirling the sword by its hilt.

“Quit spinning me, you flashy bastard—”

“Listen, you don’t need to scare my guests unless they start raiding the fridge or something.” He flicked soap at Archer and made him flinch. “Sure, maybe the guy who made you was a fake. But I could care less about the circumstances. I'm just an idiot who spent a clean 900 cause I liked his handiwork, that’s all.”

“I… I see. Do as you will, then.”

Archer turned away, resting his head against the sheet of metal separating them. Cú let him be. Maybe if they were a little closer he could have reached through it and tweaked the blush out of the man's reddened ears, but he wasn't in the mood to get whacked before he even put on his battle clothes.

“Replica or not, this craftsmanship is…” Artoria shook her head in disbelief. “How did you manage to find such a splendid weapon?”

“What can I say? That store was a good supplier. Let’s just say I wouldn't be here without ‘em.”

A pause. Cú filled the space by awkwardly wiping the soap off Archer with his towel. _Not a good crowd for this kind of callback, huh._

“Anyway, if you’ll excuse me.” He placed the sword flat on the floor, ignoring Archer's scandalized expression as he stepped over it.

Diarmuid and Artoria, finally back to their senses, looked scandalized in turn.

“W-What's with this obscene angle?” The sword clattered.

“Oh! Do forgive me for interrupting your shower.” Dia pretended to look at the stab wound in the wall.

“I should be off as well. Your hospitality is much appreciated.” Artoria bowed before hurrying out of sight.

 _Man, they're practically tripping over each other to not look._ Cú could only laugh at the spectacle.

“Don’t worry, this is as much skin as you're getting tonight. In case you couldn't tell, I don't really feel like rocking a shampoo helmet all week,” he said, poking said helmet with a finger and blowing off the foam. “Besides, someone's gotta keep Archer from making any more holes in the wall.”

The door to the bathroom slammed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cú's shower threw my pacing off a couple times ngl.  
> This is fine, though.  
> I'm taking some time to establish things.


End file.
